


Covered

by ilija



Category: Wild Adapter
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilija/pseuds/ilija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer and Kubota wears socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covered

"How the hell," Tokito starts up again, after a five minute break of silence that has been intermittently punctuated by the sounds of Kubota turning his page or beeping from the handheld in Tokito’s grip (so Kubota doesn’t look up, but merely raises an eyebrow), “you can sit there completely covered from literally head to—” a moment to think on that word ‘literally’ before continuing, and Kubota’s quite amused, before Tokito waves off the last part said with a flick of his wrist, “—ah, whatever, shoulder to toe, is beyond me, Kubo-chan. You’re gonna turn into a roast, and I won’t even feel sorry for you. Damnit!” The final punctuation was a simulated crash noise emitting from the tiny speakers of the Gameboy. 

What Tokito was commenting on was the socks. Not only was Kubota’s apartment furnished with little to no carpeting—the only exception being the footmat at the entrance to the door—so wearing that sort of footwear was, well, bound to have consequences if one stepped wrong, but because as of late, doing laundry or shopping for clothes to replace the old and worn hadn’t become that much of an anomaly. Normally, Tokito would wake up to the sound of Kubota padding barefoot across the bedroom, hall, and faintly, the living room, before heading out to do whatever job that unlicensed ass had deemed fit for Kubota to do that day. Now, Kubota and Tokito both had clean laundry but of the mornings Tokito wasn’t woken up by anything and he would wake up wondering why the hell he was alone until he was awake enough to remember. 

Not that he would have ever admitted it out loud, but the cogs turned quickly in Kubota’s head after that first day and returned home to a ninth degree interrogation courtesy of one cranky cat. Kubota had said nothing, just smiled around the filter of his cigarette and wrapped his arm around Tokito’s shoulders even if the recipient still wasn’t all too pleased with him. 

Tokito hadn’t mentioned anything about Kubota’s latest choice in housewear after that. At least, not until today. 

“I just don’t get it, I’m wearing this,” Kubota’s eyes darted toward the side, watching as Tokito emphasized by waving a hand down his own body, clad only in the bare necessities of tops and shorts, "and you— geez, I’m getting hotter just looking at you.” 

That last bit makes the page corner in Kubota’s fingers jump as he turns it, and his tiny snort through his exhalation of smoke wasn’t missed from the keen ears Tokito possessed, so Kubota earned himself a good elbow to the knee. “I heard that, you pervert.” 

“Ah hah, so maybe I am, but,” Kubota lifts one leg and lets the arch of his foot rest against the fitting curve of the back of Tokito’s neck, which practically bristles in irritation, “you really can’t say much more, since you understood exactly what I was laughing about.” 

“So,” Tokito mutters to his Gameboy display, nearly smushing his nose, caught. “I’m not as big a one as you.” 

“Mm, count that a victory for you?” 

“But seriously Kubo-chan, this—!” Tokito reaches behind his head and grabs Kubota’s ankle, “it’s too hot!” 

“Have you ever heard that if you don’t focus on it, it won’t affect you so bad?” The joints in Kubota’s toes pop as he curls them against the hairline at Tokito’s nape, then wiggles them shortly against the finer hair, making the lines of Tokito’s shoulders jump. 

“Hard enough when you’re literally surrounded, and you’re not helping,” Tokito retorts, pushing the foot off the back of his neck, but not before curling the tips of his fingers around the elastic of the sock and flinging it off in an unknown vicinity. 

“Ah.” Aside from Kubota’s observatory noise, the next little ticks of the clock hanging on the wall are silent save for the restarting sounds of Tokito’s game. Kubota is silent, magazine closed, looking in the general direction of where the sock lay as a cigarette ashes between his fingers. Then, Kubota sits up straight, leaning forward as if to rest his head on Tokito’s shoulder from where he sits in front of Kubota on the floor, but pauses as his face is parallel with Tokito’s. “I’m not getting that.” 

“Neither am I.” Tokito’s lower lip is stuck out in concentration, as if in strategizing thought over the game in his clutch. Or out of indignation. Or pouting, and a corner of Kubota’s lip turns up. 

“Well, I can’t go with just one socked foot, Tokito. That’s silly.” “Ugh, then just—” Tokito removes one hand from the Gameboy just long enough to fumble around for Kubota’s other foot behind himself without looking, and the outside of the leather is cool against Kubota’s skin as Tokito peels off the remaining sock, making the muscle jump in his leg. 

Once that sock is tossed, Kubota hasn’t moved from his position by Tokito’s face, so he carries on, “Now my feet are colder.” 

“It’s your own fault for wearing so much and getting so sweaty.” Stupid stupid stupid. 

“You do know that people can get sick from having cold feet.” 

“Oh for the love of— Kubo-chan—” Exasperated, Tokito can’t get the words out, and Kubota is just growing more amused at each word spluttered. Finally, Tokito gives up on his vernacular, throws up his hands, and scoots backward, back flush against Kubota’s shins and knees press against his shoulders. “Now shut up. You’re making me lose my game.” 

There’s no malice behind those words, but Kubota does notice the line of Tokito’s mouth has gotten firmer, as if that look could somehow ward off the creeping flush flowing to his cheeks and the back of his neck, and the little twisting smile at the one corner of Kubota’s mouth spreads to the other as well, and he leans back fully again, ashing the remainder of his cigarette and not really bothering to get up and get his pack from the table quite yet. Victory indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this about a year ago. My Wild Adapter works are some of my favorite and I'm hoping to consolidate them all on AO3 eventually. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
